“My dear fellow, what’s wrong with you? I came here to talk about something. I ran after you to talk business!”
Kutsapyetov was silent for a few seconds, and then contin- ued: “It’s an important matter. My Marya told me that you like a bit of hanky-panky with her. As far as that goes, it’s fine by me. You see, when it comes to these matters I personally don’t give a damn, but if we look at the situation fair and square, I would be honored if you would be ready to come to some sort of an acco-modation with me. After all, I am her husband, the head of the family, you might say... legally speaking. When Prince Mikhail Dimitritch was hanky-pankying with her, he would slip me two twenty-fivers a month. How much would you setde for? An honest man’s word is good as gold. But please, get up!”
Sheptunov stood up. Broken, sullied, he dragged himself up the embankment.
“How much would you setde for?” Kutsapyetov repeated. “I was thinking of only asking for a twenty-fiver... because I wanted to see if you might have a little position available for my nephew.”
In a daze, Sheptunov stumbled blindly to the station and threw himself on the bed. When he woke up the next morning, his cap and one of his shoulder straps were missing.
To this day he is ashamed.
A
WOMAN’S
REVENGE
THE BELL RANG. Nadyezhda Petrovna, the lady of the house in which this story took place, jumped up from the sofa and ran to open the door.
“It’ll be my husband!” she thought.
But when she opened the door, it wasn’t her husband she saw. A tall, handsome man in an expensive bear-fur coat and gold-rimmed spectacles stood before her. There was a frown on his forehead, and his sleepy eyes looked out on the world with languid indifference.
“How may I help you?” Nadyezhda Petrovna asked.
“I am the doctor, madam. I was called here by... let me see, the Chelobitevs. Do the Chelobitevs live here?”
“Yes, we are the Chelobitevs. But... I’m sorry, doctor. My husband had an abscess on his gum and a fever. He sent you a letter, but as it looked like you weren’t coming, he lost patience and rushed off to the dentists.”
“I see. But he might as well have gone straight to the dentist without inconveniencing me.”
The doctor frowned. A minute passed in silence.
“I am sorry, doctor, that we inconvenienced you, that we had you come all this way for nothing. If my husband had known that you were coming, I can assure you he would never have run off to the dentists! I am so sorry!”
Another minute of silence passed. Nadyezhda Petrovna scratched her head.
“What is he waiting for?” she thought, glancing at the door. “I have to go, madam!” the doctor mumbled. “Please don’t keep me. Time is money!”
“Well... I, well... I’m not keeping you.”
“But madam! I cannot leave without being compensated for my efforts!”
“Your efforts?... Oh, I see!” Nadyezhda Petrovna stammered, turning bright red. “You are right... it’s true, you must be paid for coming... you went to all that trouble, you came over! But doctor, this is very embarrassing... my husband left home taking all our money with him! I don’t have a kopeck in the house!”
“Well... that’s strange. Let me see. I can’t wait for your husband to return, but if you look carefully through the house you might find a little money... the amount, in actual fact, would be quite negligible.”
“But I can assure you, my husband took everything with him! I am sorry, this is so embarrassing! I would never want to go through all of this for a few rubles... what an impossible situation!”
“I have never understood the publics view of a doctors job, never! It’s as if we ourselves weren’t people, as if our job wasn’t a job! After all, I did come over to your house, I lost time, I was inconvenienced!”
“No, I’m fully aware of what you’re saying, but you will surely agree that there are times when there isn’t even a kopeck in the house!”
“That may well be. But what it is, is that you, madam, are simply... naïve, illogical. You must understand, not paying a person... that’s unethical. You take advantage of the fact that I can’t take you to court, and so... simply and without ceremo-ny... it’s so strange!”
The doctor fell silent. He was disgusted with humanity. Nadyezhda Petrovna blushed. She felt awkward.
“Fine!” she said sharply. “Wait for me here, and I’ll send
word to the store to see if I can borrow some money. I’ll pay you.”
Nadyezhda Petrovna went into the living room and sat down to write a note to the storekeeper. The doctor took off his coat, went into the living room, and slumped down on a chair. They both sat silendy, waiting for a response from the storekeeper. About five minutes later the answer came. Nadyezhda Petrovna took a ruble out of the envelope and gave it to the doctor. The doctors eyes bulged.
“Surely you are joking, madam!” he said, laying the ruble on the table. “My manservant might accept a ruble, but I... no, I’m sorry!”
“But how much would you need?”
“Normally I would take ten. From you, however, five would be fine.”
“You’ll have to wait quite a long time before you’ll get a fiver from me! I don’t have the money.”
“Send another note to the storekeeper. If he could give you a ruble, why shouldn’t he be able to give you five? Does it matter? I beg you, madam, not to keep me any longer! I am a busy man!”
“Doctor, you are being unkind! You are being impertinent... rude... inhuman! You are... loathsome!”
Nadyezhda Petrovna turned to the window and bit her lip. Big tears fell from her eyes.
“Scoundrel! Bastard!” she thought. “Animal! How dare he, how dare he! Can’t he understand my horrible, impossible situation! Just you wait, you swine!”
After a few seconds of thought, she turned to face the doctor. This time her face expressed suffering.
“Doctor!” she said in a low, imploring voice. “Doctor! If you had a heart, if you tried to understand, you wouldn’t torture me this way for the money. As it is, my life is full of trials and tribulations!”
Nadyezhda Petrovna squeezed her temples as if she were squeezing a spring. Her hair spilled onto her shoulders.
“One suffers as it is being married to a lout of a husband... one is forced to bear these horrendous surroundings, and then on top of it all one is reproached by the only educated person around! My God! I can’t bear it any longer!”
“But madam, please understand, the special conditions of our profession...”
But the doctor was forced to cut his sentence short. Nadyezhda Petrovna staggered and fainted into his outstretched arms. Her head fell onto his shoulder.
“Here, near the fireplace, yes,” she whispered after a few moments. “Come closer... I will tell you everything... everything!”
An hour later the doctor left the Chelobitev apartment. He felt annoyed, ashamed, and happy all in one.
“Damn it!” he thought, as he sat down in his sleigh. “It’s never a good idea to take too much money with you when you leave the house. You never know what you’ll run up against!”
O
WOMEN
WOMEN!
SERGEI KUZMITCH Pochitayev, editor-in-chief of the provincial newspaper Flypaper, came home from the office tired and worn out, and slumped down on the sofa.
“Thank God I’m finally home! Here I can rest my soul... by our warm hearth, with my wife, my darling, the only person in this world who understands me, who can truly sympathize with me!”
“Why are you so pale today?” his wife, Marya Denisovna, asked.
“My soul was in torment, but now—the moment I’m with you, I’m hilly relaxed!”
“What happened?”
“So many problems, especially today! Petrov is no longer willing to extend credit to the paper. The secretary has taken to drink... I can somehow deal with all these things, but here’s the real problem, Marya.
There I am, sitting in my office going over something one of my reporters wrote, when suddenly the door opens and my dear old friend Prince Prochukhantsev comes in. You know, the one who always plays the beau in amateur theatricals—he’s the one who gave his white horse to that actress, Zryakina, for a single kiss. The moment I saw him I thought: what the hell brings him here, he must want something! But I reckoned he’d probably come to promote Zryakina. So we start chatting about this and that. Finally it turns out that he hadn’t come to push Zryakina—he brought some poems for me to print! ‘I felt,’ he tells me, a fiery flame and... a flaming fire! I wanted to taste the sweetness of authorship!’
“So he takes a perfumed pink piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.
‘“In my verse,’ he continues, ‘I am, in actual fact, somewhat subjective, but anyway... after all, our national poet Nekrassov was deeply subjective, too.’
“I picked up these subjective poems and read them through. It was the most impossible drivel I have ever seen! Reading these poems, you feel your eyes beginning to pop and your stomach about to burst, as if you’d swallowed a millstone! And he dedicated the poems to Zryakina! I would drag him to court if he dared dedicate such drivel to me! In one poem he uses the word ‘headlong’ five times! And the rhythm! ‘Lilee- white’ instead of‘lily-white!’ He rhymes ‘horse’ with ‘of course!’
‘“I’m sorry!’ I tell him, ‘You are a very dear friend, but there is no way I can print your poems!’
“‘And why, may I ask?’
“‘Because... well, for reasons beyond the control of the editorial office, these poems do not fit into the scheme of the newspaper.’
“I went completely red. I started rubbing my eyes, and claimed I had a pounding headache. How could I tell him that his poems were utterly worthless! He saw my embarrassment, and puffed up like a turkey.
“‘You,’ he tells me, ‘are angry with Zryakina, and that’s why you’re refusing to print my poems! I understand! I fully understand, my dear sir!’
“He accused me of prejudice, called me a Philistine, an ecclesiastical bigot, and God knows what else. He went at me for a full two hours. In the end he swore he would get even with me. Then he left without saying another word. That’s the long and short of it, darling! And today’s the fourth of December, no less—Saint Barbaras day—Zryakina’s name day! He wanted those poems printed, come wind, come rain! As far as printing them goes, that’s impossible! My paper would become a laughingstock throughout Russia. But not to print them is impossible too: Prochukhantsev will start plotting against me—and that’ll be that! I have to figure out now how to get myself out of this impossible mess!”
“What kind of poems are they? What are they about?” Marya Denisovna asked.
“They’re useless, pure twaddle! Do you want to hear one? It starts like this:
Through dreamily wafting cigar smoke,
You came scampering into my dreams,
Your love hitting me with one sharp stroke,
Your sweet lips smiling with fiery beams.
“And then straightaway:
Forgive me, O angel pure as a summer song!
Eternal friend, O ideal so very bright!
Forgetting love, I threw myself headlong
Into the jaws of death—O woe, O fright!
“And on and on. Pure twaddle!”
“What do you mean? These poems are really sweet!” Marya Denisovna exclaimed, clasping her hands together.
“They are extremely sweet! You’re just being churlish, Sergei!... ‘Through dreamily wafting cigar smoke... sweet lips smiling with fiery beams,’ you simply don’t understand, do you? You don’t!”
“It is you who don’t understand, not I!”
“No, I’m sorry! I may be at sea when it comes to prose, but when it comes to poetry, I’m in my element! You just hate him, and that’s why you don’t want to print his poems!”
The editor sighed and banged his hand first on the table, and then against his forehead.
“Experts!” he muttered, smiling scornfully.
Snatching up his top hat, he shook his head bitterly and went out.
“I will go look for a corner of this world where a shunned man can find some sympathy! O women, women! They are all the same!” he thought, as he marched over to the London Restaurant. He intended to get himself drunk.
TWO
LETTERS
I.A SERIOUS QUESTION
My dearest uncle Anisim Petrovitch,
Your neighbor Kurosheyev has just been to visit me and informed me, among other things, that Murdashevitch, from next door to you, returned with his family from abroad a few days ago. This bit of news shocked me all the more as it seemed that the Murdashevitches were going to stay abroad forever. My dearest uncle! If you harbor any love in your heart for your humble nephew, then I beg you, dear, dear uncle, to visit Murdashevitch and find out how his ward, Mashenka, is doing. I am laying bare to you the innermost secret of my soul. It is only you alone I trust! I love Mashenka—I love her passionately, more than my life! Six years of separation have not dampened my feelings for her one iota. Is she alive? Is she well? Please write and tell me how she is! Does she remember me? Does she love me like she used to? May I write her a letter? My dear, dear uncle! Please find out and send me all the details.
Tell her that I am no longer the poor and timid student she once knew—I am now a barrister, with a practice of my own, with money. In a word, to achieve perfect happiness in life I need only one thing—her!
I embrace you, and hope for a speedy reply.
Vladimir Gretchnev
II. A DETAILED RESPONSE
My dearest nephew Vladimir,
I received your letter, and went over to see Murdashe- vitch the very next day. What a great fellow he is! He did age a bit abroad, and has gone somewhat gray, but all these years he kept me, his dear old friend, in his heart, and when I entered he embraced me, looked me in the eye for a long time, and said with a timid, tender cry, “Who are you?” When I told him my family name, he embraced me again, and said, “Now it’s all coming back to me!” What a great fellow! As long as I was there, I had a few drinks and a snack, and then we sat down to a few friendly rounds of Preference. He explained to me all kinds of funny things about foreign countries and had me in stitches with all his droll imitations of the Germans and their funny ways. But in science, he told me, the Germans have gone far. He even showed me a picture he bought on his trip through Italy, of this person of the female sex in a rather strange, indecent dress. And I saw Mashenka too. She was wearing a plush pink-colored gown embellished with all kinds of costly bits and bobs. She does remember you, and her eyes even cried a tear or two when she asked about you. She wants you to write to her, and thanks you for your tender memories and feelings. You wrote that you have your own practice and money! My dear boy, do be careful with that money—be moderate and abstinent! When I was a young man I gave myself up to voluptuous excesses—but only for short periods, and with extreme caution—and yet I still repent!
My very best wishes.
Your loving uncle, Anisim Gretchnev
P.S. Your writing is garbled, but has an eloquent and tempting style. I showed your letter to all the neighbors. They thought you a great storyteller! Vladimir, Father Grigory’s son, copied it out so he can send it to a newspaper. I also showed it to Mashenka and her husband, Uhrmacher, the German she married last year. He read it and was full of praise. I am going to show the letter and read it to others, too. You must write more! Murdashevitch’s caviar is very tasty.
TO SPEAK
OR
BE SILENT:
A TALE
ONCE UPON A TIME in a distant kingdom there lived two friends, Krueger and Smirnov. Krueger had a brilliant mind; Smirnov, on the other hand, was not so clever: he was unassuming, meek, and weak-willed. Krueger was talkative and eloquent, Smirnov tight-lipped.
One day, while traveling on a train, both men tried to win the aff
ections of a young woman in the compartment. Krueger took the seat next to her and ingratiated himself with her, while Smirnov sat silently, blinking, lustfully licking his lips. At the next station Krueger got off with the young woman and didn’t return for quite a while. When he came back, he winked at Smirnov and clicked his tongue.
“You’re so smooth!” Smirnov said to him, full of envy.
“How do you do it? You hardly sat down next to her, and that was that... Lucky you!”
“You keep letting opportunities slip through your fingers! You sat right next to her for three hours, and not a word! Silent as a log! In our world, my friend, silence brings you nothing. You have to be quick on the draw, talkative. Nothing works for you—and why? Because you’re a milksop!”
Smirnov agreed with these arguments, and decided deep in his heart to change his ways. Within the hour, overcoming his timidity, he was sitting next to a gentleman in a blue suit and striking up a lively conversation with him. The gentleman turned out to be extremely talkative and immediately began asking Smirnov all kinds of questions, principally of a scientific nature. He asked him how he liked the land, the sky, was he satisfied with the laws of nature and with society, touching on European trends of free thinking, the status of women in America, and so on. Smirnov answered with wit and enthusiasm.
Imagine how surprised he was when the gendeman in the blue suit grabbed him by the arm at the next station and, smiling spitefully, barked out: “Follow me!”
Smirnov followed him and disappeared. No one knew where he was. Two years later, pale, emaciated, scraggy, like the skeleton of a fish, he ran into Krueger. Smirnov smiled bitterly and told him all the hardships he had been through.
“You mustn’t be an idiot and blab so much!” Krueger said. “You have to know when to hold your tongue!”
AFTER
THE
FAIR
AMERCHANT FROM THE First Traders Guild of Moscow had just returned from the Nizhgorod Fair, and in his pockets his wife found a bunch of torn and tattered papers covered with smudged writing. She managed to make out the following: